


17:17

by strangeera



Series: You're alright [2]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:44:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeera/pseuds/strangeera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the sofa in Robert's new apartment and I'm feeling very out of place, like I really don't belong here – TV show on mute on the TV; a polar bear pillow on the sofa beside me; framed anime poster on the wall, seriously, what a nerd. Glance at my phone and it's 17:17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	17:17

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking there's gonna be about six parts to this, maybe. Let me know what you think.

On the sofa in Robert's new apartment and I'm feeling very out of place, like I really don't belong here – TV show on mute on the TV; a polar bear pillow on the sofa beside me; framed anime poster on the wall, seriously, what a nerd. Glance at my phone and it's 17:17. Work it out in my head and it's 5:17. Something about being here makes me feel nervous and I dunno, unauthentic – phoney. I mean, the indignation is still there, but there's something else too. I don't want to think about it right now, though. I just want a cup of tea. Stare at the framed anime poster on the wall until I get bored and stare at something else while he's in the kitchen making the tea: no sugar, but he always forgets and I have to make it myself. Well, used to. 

 

Stare at the CD rack – new Bring Me the Horizon CD. Really? He's taking a long time. Stare at the TV on mute, then stare at the polar bear pillow.

 

“Well, would you look at this,” he says from the kitchen in a really high voice and bored, I turn around and he's standing in the doorway and smiling, not holding two cups of tea, but holding one dog, and they're both staring at me like they've lost their minds. 

 

I don't even like dogs that much, I mean, they're okay. This dog is beautiful though, really something else. A golden Labrador puppy, little blue collar with a fucking paw print shaped tag on it and this dog looks like a movie star. I'm imagining this dog wearing sunglasses, sitting at a table in a restaurant and looking bored. He says to the dog: “what are you doing here?” in that weird baby voice people use with babies and old people, holding it up to his face and like, snuggling against it, and I feel bizarrely yearning, in kind of an empty, painful way, like I really wanna bite off some of my fingers or something, and breathless, I have to look away. Stare at the ceiling as he puts the dog on the floor. 

 

He says: “he's been dying to meet you,” and I take a deep breath and glance back over at the two of them, so in love it makes me envious a little bit, and the dog is wagging its tail and staring at me expectantly – both of them are, and this was a bad idea, I'm telling myself. But still, I say: “come here, then,” to the dog in my normal voice, and it pretty much pegs it at me, jumps on my lap and licks my face. It smells like a puppy. You know, that puppy smell.

 

Laughter from behind us. “Somebody's crazy about you,” he says, leaning against the kitchen doorway, and when I look back between licks, he looks pretty happy, watching us, and that ugly thing inside me lurches, and I can't help myself. 

 

“Nice change of pace,” I half spit, regretting it instantly but I don't rectify myself. So what if I slightly hurt his feelings? Isn't it enough that I'm even here, after everything? Pretending to like your stupid dog, but not really pretending? Haven't I earned an occasional, metaphorical “fuck you” now and again? That's not how this works, I tell myself. So I soften: “what's his name?” Stare at the dog. They kind of look alike. Fluffy blonde hair and big, stupid eyes. 

 

He doesn't say anything for a second, and then: “Arnold,” clearly wounded, and something about that makes me feel, I dunno, not great. 

 

“Arnold?” I'm saying, stroking Arnold's face. “Really?” 

 

“Yeah,” he shrugs behind us with a sly smile, “like Hey Arnold, you know. Me and Andy used to watch that all the time when we were kids, with,” he freezes, casually fingering the space between the kitchen door and the doorway, and the smile vanishes, and then: “you know, before.” Laughter, but different. I get it. Stare at Arnold.

 

I'm feeling pretty uncomfortable, something I can't put my finger on, and I don't know what to say at all so I say, quietly: “I preferred the Angry Beavers. Anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling a breath I didn't even notice he was holding. “Anyway. Oh, you wanted a cuppa,” he says, and vanishes. I stare at Arnold as the TV channel changes on a timer. 

 

“Somebody's crazy about you,” I whisper to Arnold sadly, inflection on the “somebody”. Arnold stares at me, licks my face.


End file.
